


Christmas Lights

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas fic, M/M, Season 8, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:24:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He might have been losing his wings, but he’d definitely kept his grace. </p><p>The way he moved was sleek, unhurried, measured; strong. He fought like a dancer or an athlete, slick and professional, though Dean knew full well that no one ever taught him. Most of the time he looked uncomfortable in his borrowed skin, wore it like a coat that was too small even under his real, too-big one. But when he was fighting; when he had a sword in his hand, when it was between him and blood and another body, he was a creature altogether different. </p><p>Thing is, though, when it comes to untangling Christmas lights, all that grace and strength becomes pretty fucking irrelevant.<br/>(a present for Amber, the Cas to my Dean)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Lights

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a (late), half-fluffy christmas present for Amber, and I hope she likes it, because I love her very much indeed.

He might have been losing his wings, but he’d definitely kept his grace.

The way he moved was sleek, unhurried, measured; strong. He fought like a dancer or an athlete, slick and professional, though Dean knew full well that no one ever taught him. Most of the time he looked uncomfortable in his borrowed skin, wore it like a coat that was too small even under his real, too-big one. But when he was fighting; when he had a sword in his hand, when it was between him and blood and another body, he was a creature altogether different.

Thing is, though, when it comes to untangling Christmas lights, all that grace and strength becomes pretty fucking irrelevant.

“Cas?”

He was sat on the floor of Bobby’s study, lights spread around him, hands dug into a spaghetti-like mess of green and black braided cables, their tiny, pointed lights stuck out at every possible angle, unlit. He looked up, irritable, but said nothing. Dean stood in the doorway and wondered (not for the first time that day) if this was the moment when he was finally going to get smote; judging by the expression on Castiel’s face, he was inches away from putting a hand to Dean’s forehead and ending it all. “This is a thoroughly pointless exercise.” He muttered. Dean (wisely) repressed a snort.

“How’re you gettin’ on?”

“When you said you needed help-“ Castiel grunted as his fingers found a particularly stubborn knot, and he squinted at the wires between his hands as he tried to untangle it, mostly without success – “I assumed you were in some sort of danger.” He looked up from the knot, which still hadn’t budged. “I didn’t realise you meant something so… _mundane.”_ He finished derisively, fingers still scrabbling at the cables even though his eyes were fixed on Dean. He was cross-legged in the middle of the carpet, trenchcoat spread out behind him, its split tails puddled like a cape on the floor. Dean said nothing; Castiel made another noise of disgust. “What is the purpose of this, anyway? Are you constructing some sort of…” he faltered as he fumbled for the word around trying to sort the tangled mess of wires, his fingernails trying to find purchase around the knot, digging at its separate components with increasing impatience. “Lure?”

Dean laughed openly at that; “Was that a joke?” The look Castiel gave him assured him otherwise, and Dean was literally so floored that for a moment he just stood there staring at the angel with a stupid expression on his face. “Are you fucking serious? You don’t know what these are for?”

Castiel tutted. “I don’t pretend to understand most of the things humans do, Dean.”

“Yeah, but, I –“ he flapped his mouth uselessly. “Dude, it’s _Christmas eve.”_

Castiel looked away from the Christmas lights again. “And that calls for a waste of electricity?”

Dean crossed the room and sat down in front of him; he took the section of wires that Castiel was having trouble with from his hands, and set about untangling it himself. “Well. _Yeah_. Obviously. You’ve seen Christmas, Cas.”

“I have. I didn’t think, however, it was of any interest to you or your brother.” He tilted his head to one side, and Dean could feel his eyes on him as he struggled with the wires. “Sam’s faith waned since I met him, and you have never exactly held to any denomination. _Particularly_ Christianity, though I suspect that’s more out of obstinacy than actual belief-”

Dean cut him off, not wanting to get into _that_ again. He’d had enough conversations like that with the pamphlet-pushers that came to the doorstep. Apparently even in the middle of nowhere, the conversion squad was still a thing. “Yeah, but Cas, it’s not really about Jesus anymore. To us, anyway. It’s just …” he shrugged uselessly, and hummed, pleased, when the knot finally loosened and started to come apart. “It’s hard to explain.”

Castiel was silent for a moment, asking nothing else; he busied himself with another section of cable, hands tugging at the plastic wires again. After a moment or so in which the two of them simply struggled in silence, he cleared his throat gently. “And these lights – they’re integral to the tradition?”

Dean didn’t look up, but he grinned. “Yeah, Cas. They’re pretty important.”

Xxx

“Hey, Cas?”

They were sitting in Bobby’s front room; Sam was spread out on the couch, his legs taking up almost the entire thing but for the tiny square where Dean had perched himself. He’d started off sitting on Sam’s feet, but had been forcibly (and pretty fucking rudely) kicked off. Sam had turfed him onto the floor and made noises of complaint when Dean got up and shoved his feet up to make room. He shuffled in his seat. Castiel, across the room, had been transfixed by “Love Actually”, which was playing on Bobby’s shockingly old tv set, but at this summons, he looked up.

 “Yes?” Dean was always a little surprised by how Castiel always looked genuinely interested in what he had to say; Sam almost always treated him with an air of slight derision (but, then, Sam was his little brother; what did he expect?). But Castiel turned his eyes on him and looked totally one-hundred-percent present, totally engaged. It was something you didn’t often get with humans – sometimes it was the only thing that reminded Dean of Castiel’s angelhood (that, and his annoying habit of teleporting everywhere).

“Do you guys have a Dean Winchester day? Like, in heaven?”

Sam, who had been engrossed in the tv just as much as Castiel (though he’d seen the fucking movie at _least_ a hundred times), looked at him and started laughing.

“No, Dean.” Castiel, predictably, treated the question with absolute seriousness. “Why?”

Dean leaned back in his seat. “I dunno. I _was_ resurrected. Pulled out of hell, or whatever. I was dead for a _year._ Jesus was only dead for, what, like two weeks?”

“Three days.” Sam cut in, “But last I checked, you _definitely_ aren’t the son of god.”

“Hey, you don’t know! Maybe Mom found me on the porch. It’d explain why I look nothing like your ugly ass.”

Sam just rolled his eyes and turned back to the tv; he really, really liked the bit where Hugh Grant did his little dance routine. Dean grinned at him for a couple of seconds before he realised Sam was just going to ignore him. He turned, instead, and looked at Castiel. “Hey, Cas, remember how I said I needed  help with other stuff, too?” Castiel nodded. “C’mon.” he got up from the sofa – Sam immediately stretched his legs out on the entire length again – and walked out of the room, gesturing for Castiel to follow.

Xxx

Thirty minutes later they were still out in the snow, Sam standing at the foot of the pile of cars, arms folded; Dean at the top of the ladder leaned against them, Castiel at the foot of it, holding him steady. He looked down at the angel, who seemed to be holding both Dean’s weight and the weight of about two hundred feet of Christmas lights with ease.

“How’s that?” he called down, threading one end of the lights in and out of a car’s empty front window.

“Bobby’s gonna kill you!” Sam shouted back up, hands cupped around his mouth; Dean laughed at him.

“Are you kidding? He’ll love it!” he took the ball of lights, now in a neat coil thanks mostly to Castiel, and threw them as hard as he could over the piles of rusted, burnt-out cars in Bobby’s yard. The coil unfurled beautifully for a couple of yards, draping itself over metal, just like he’d wanted it to – and then it fell with a thud into a gap between two cars and got stuck. He heard Sam laughing below. “Fuck.”

He drew in a sharp breath before putting both hands on the hood of the car he was leaning against, and pushing down on it, hard. The car didn’t give, but that didn’t really make him feel any better; he was up _really high,_ and if he fell, a car crushing him would be the least on a long list of his worries. The top billing would probably go to Sam’s smug expression when they pulled him from the wreckage. 

He pushed experimentally on the car again; it creaked, and rocked, this time. He scrunched his eyes shut. “Fuck!” He shouted down; Sam, thankfully, refrained from any further teasing. He tried to pry his eyes open and start going down the ladder; there was still a good length of cable trailing on the ground, and they could probably use it to pull the cables down again, even though they’d most likely pop all the lights off in the process. He sighed and prepared to take the long route down, hands stiff from the cold, slipping on the ladder’s steel rungs. Behind his closed eyes, the car creaked. He opened them again.

Castiel, standing on the car in front of him, sensible shoes planted firmly on the hood of a burnt-out Chevy husk, handed him the bundle of wires without comment. Dean panicked; he looked down, eyes wide, terrified that he’d see the ladder swinging free at the bottom, wobbling, but instead Sam was standing there, shit-eating grin turned up at him, obviously well aware of his fear.

“Thanks, Cas.” The angel nodded.

“I see now why you needed my help.” His smile was wry; Dean chuckled and tried to pry his white-knuckled hands off the ladder so he could take the lights.

“Alright, you smug bastard. You wanna see if you can throw them further than me?”

Castiel took the cables wordlessly from his hands, and in one fluid motion threw the cables, clearing a good seven stacks of cars, the lights falling in one long, graceful arc against the darkening winter light. Dean tutted.

“Fucking showoff.” But no one was there to hear it; Castiel was gone. He frowned, and climbed down the ladder again. At the bottom, Sam patted his shoulder mockingly.

“It’s okay. We’ll get you a change of pants once we’re inside.”

Dean punched him.

Xxx

He always felt unbelievably stupid calling to Castiel via prayer, but calling him on a cellphone, if possible, was even more awkward.

He stood with a hand over his other ear, ignoring Sam’s pointed shivering as he waited for Castiel to pick up.

The phone kept ringing.

Sam, behind him, sighed. “We can do this on our own, Dean.”

Dean didn’t dignify him with a response. “Cas?”

The voice on the other end was confused, at best, but Dean was used to it. “Dean. I’m in the Mojave desert.”

Dean shrugged, though Castiel couldn’t see him – what did that even _mean?_ “Yeah? You wanna come back?”

To his credit, it was only a few seconds until Castiel appeared beside him. He looked first at Dean, who still had the phone to his ear, then at Sam standing next to the trees with a scarf and hat on, and finally at the trees themselves. He turned back to Dean.

“You needed me?”

Dean nodded at the felled tree at Sam’s feet. “You can carry that, right?”

Castiel looked at him as if he was being fucking ridiculous – which Dean supposed he was – and picked up the tree with one hand. He put it under his arm and started walking, wordlessly, back towards the car, his feet sinking into the feet-deep snow, the green head of the tree trailing behind him, leaving a long, meandering furrow in his wake.

Sam walked beside him as they followed, and bent down to stage-whisper close to Dean’s ear. “The hell are you doing?”

Dean didn’t look at him. He stage-whispered back. “What? Nothing.”

“You’ve called him like a hundred times today.”

Dean frowned, but he couldn’t really argue. First there’d been getting the boxes of decorations out of the attic, then the Christmas lights, then stringing them;  then he’d called Cas to ask him which beer he thought Bobby would prefer (“Whichever costs the least and has the highest proof.”, and then he was gone again), then he’d called him to help choose the movie for tomorrow (“Dean I really have no idea what this film has to do with the birth of Jesus Christ.”, derisive, _Die Hard_ dangling from his hand), and now the tree. Maybe he wasn’t being all that sneaky, after all. Still, there were traditions to uphold, and Dean’s forte was deny, deny, deny. “Have not.”

Sam snorted, watching Castiel’s hunched shoulders as he strode through the snow, the end of the tree bobbing behind him. “He’d probably stay, if you asked him.”

“Got no idea what you’re talking about.” He walked a little faster; caught up with Castiel, leaving Sam, chuckling, behind.

Xxx

Sam had fallen asleep on the couch, Castiel beside him, his eyes slowly closing. The three of them had been crushed together, line to line, Castiel at one side, Sam on the other, his long legs folded up to fit the sofa, big feet in the ridiculous Christmas socks Dean had got him, a kind of apology that Dean didn’t want to consider too deeply.

Dean had drawn himself away from their warmth, let them slump against each other, and had put his jacket on to sneak out into the snow. He sat himself on the hood of an old Mustang, its veneer, once cherry-red, now rusted, pockmarked with scratches and fissures. Could have been beautiful at one point, though. He brushed snow half-heartedly from it, pushed an armful aside, then sat on the hood with his legs drawn up to his chest, resting his elbows on each knee, feet perched on the front bumper, which still clung on.

“Thought you were napping.” He said, instead of any real ‘hello’, as Castiel approached him, crunching through the snow with his coat swinging around his shoulders like it wasn’t fucking freezing out there in the yard.

“I don’t sleep.” Castiel stood in front of him, and Dean looked at him sarcastically. “Often.” He amended, tilting his head upward at the lights strewn over the cars above their heads. Dean followed his gaze.

“Those’ll be a pain in the ass to take down.”

“I’ll help.” Castiel looked at him and smiled, just the barest tilt of his lips. “If you need me to.”

Dean realised he was making a joke, and almost slid off the car in shock. “I might. Some of those things are pretty damned high, thanks to you.” He glanced at the angel slyly. “’Sides, you should probably stick around. Haven’t even stuck you on top of the tree, yet.”

“It would never support my weight.” The angel replied, completely deadpan, but Dean wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t making another joke; he had always figured that two in one day was too much to hope for. He coughed, rubbing his cold hands together.

“Busted, then?”

“You weren’t very subtle.” Castiel wasn’t looking at him; his head was still tilted towards the lights above them, eyes interested, like he was seeing more than just some dumb plastic they’d thrown around to annoy Bobby. Here in the darkness the lights looked pretty good, though; strangely festive.

“Yeah. Well.” He blew on his cupped hands and rubbed them together again. “You never come around unless there’s something we need you for. I just…gave you stuff to do.”

Castiel smiled at him again, strange and almost sad, “You could just have asked.”

He would never give Sam the satisfaction. “You might’ve said no.” Dean looked at him and grinned. “I’m insecure, man. Couldn’t face the potential rejection. Anyway, you had fun, right?”

“I enjoyed myself.” He conceded. He put his hand out, palm up, and when a snowflake landed on it he brought the hand close to his face. Dean blew on his hands again and Castiel frowned. He wiped his snow-wet hands on his coat and held them out towards Dean like he was trying to catch twice as many snowflakes; palms up, fingers straight. Barely a question at all. “May I?”

Dean briefly panicked. “What’re you gonna do?”

Castiel rolled his eyes. He pressed his palms to Dean’s hands, sandwiching them between his own. Castiel’s hands were so warm that the sensation bordered on prickly pain; but they stopped just short of it and his skin was smooth, uncalloused and dry. Either Jimmy didn’t get out much, or Castiel had one heck of a skincare routine. Either was possible. 

“Thanks.”

 Castiel nodded like it was nothing; he withdrew his hands, but the heat remained. “Better?”

“Yeah. Definitely.” He tried, and failed, to keep the awed tone out of his voice.

Castiel turned his face to him. “Did _you_ enjoy yourself today, Dean?”

“Huh? Yeah. Christmas eve is cool, it’s the best part. It was way better than last year.”

“So you’re out here trying to catch hypothermia on purpose?”

Dean laughed. He was tired, and Castiel, as always, had his number. “I just thought our last Christmas might be a little more… special. Mine and Sam’s, I mean.”

“From what I’ve gathered, Dean, Christmas is usually a disappointment to its celebrators. It’s a product of too many hopes pinned on one day.” He paused. “And although it’s very likely, there’s no guarantee that this Christmas will be your last.”

Dean laughed aloud, again. “Man, Cas. You’re such a ray of sunshine.” He sighed. “I know. I guess I just wanted one really great Christmas. Me, and Sammy, and Bobby - and you. Family. You know? Seems these days I’m running out.” He hadn’t mentioned Jo and Ellen since it happened. If Castiel caught the reference, he said nothing.

“If it’s any help at all, Dean, I’m proud to count myself among your family. It’s an honour.”

“Damn right it is.” He grinned, then looked at Castiel, and let that smile fade.

The winter sun was rising; Christmas had begun hours ago, and now bluish light was steeping into the day, glinting low off every car in the yard, bright and intrusive and pale. But Castiel looked so honest, eyes earnest and level, that Dean didn’t even question wanting to kiss him. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d wanted it, after all.

 It was always the gentlest shift; something clicked into place, something small, and all he could think was – _ah. There you are._ And everything made the tiniest bit more sense.

He didn’t kiss him – had no idea how to even begin -  but he shuffled closer, slid through the snow on top of the car and fit his shoulder against Castiel’s, feeling the warmth of his skin bloom surely and resolutely inside him. 

**_ Four Years Later _ **

Rufus’ cabin wasn’t much like home, but they made do. They’d been on the road non-stop for four weeks, maybe more; the silence between he and Sam persisted, and though Castiel was back, purgatory stubble gone, his coat clean-pressed, the weight in his eyes familiar and warm instead of desperate, things were still strained, and not much like Christmas. Dean had made the best effort; bought beer, started a fire.

 There was no tree, no turkey, but there was cable, there was a couch, and there was the cabin, its wood planks suffused with smoke and smelling of smouldering timber from the _real fire,_ about the only thing Sam had commented on since they arrived. Words between them were few, stilted and perfunctory. Sam rarely laughed, and whatever he said was either to do with the job, or laced with resentment, tiredness and sorrow. Dean knew he wasn’t behaving much better, and trapped between them was the angel, like some poor kid sandwiched between parents on the brink of divorce (although the comparison alone made him balk).

 He tried, against impulse, to cajole Sam into at least arguing over what to watch on TV, but Sam conceded to his choices without putting up a fight, and drank most of the beer before muttering a tired, almost ironic ‘Merry Christmas’, and slumping off into one of the bedrooms, shoulders hung wearily, eyes on Dean only briefly. Not angry. Just so fucking _sad_ that a pulse of guilt went through him like a gunshot, and before Sam could speak, he turned his eyes away.

Dean flicked despondently through the channels for an hour or so before he handed Castiel the remote and let him choose. Eventually, from a laziness that was more to do with the day than anything else- though the beer helped - he started feeling loose in his bones, despite his frequent glances at the doorway Sam had left through.

Even Castiel was getting lax; his jacket and coat were draped over the arm of the couch, and they were so crushed together that it bordered on uncomfortable. Castiel was rapt, though; he watched TV sometimes, not often but enough that Dean knew it had started to hold his interest. The movie playing was some old romcom; _Sleepless in Seattle_ maybe, or _When Harry Met Sally_.

Castiel was wedged so closely next to him that he was almost tucked against his back; he hadn’t really thought anything of it until now, because Sam had been next to him, but now the closeness was achingly, strangely obvious. Castiel’s breath occasionally warmed his shoulder, and he tried to ignore it.

 “These two.”

The room had been silent, but for the TV, for so long that Dean found hearing a voice in the room strangely alien. He raised his head; Castiel was still staring at the screen. “Yeah, Cas?”

“It’s very frustrating.” He said quietly, offering no other explanation. “That film we watched, years ago, the one Sam liked, with the frankly deeply unsettling vision of British politics-“ Dean laughed, surprised – “That was frustrating, too.”

“Frustrating?” He yawned. Castiel gestured at the screen.

“All the humans in these films take so _long_ to do anything. They don’t communicate properly, they misunderstand one another. These two have known each other for almost ten years, and still they keep making mistakes. Surely films of this genre are supposed to be fantasy? They’re supposed to satisfy the viewer?”

Dean shrugged, and felt his shoulder brush Castiel’s arm as he did. “I dunno man, this is more Sam’s thing. He’s the sap.”

“I just find it strange.” There was a brief, contemplative pause, and then Castiel turned to look at him. “Are you okay, Dean?”

The change of subject didn’t faze him all that much. “Yeah. You know what? I’m good. You were right.”

“I often am.”

“I’m trying to talk to you here, Cas. Don’t ruin it.” He shuffled on the couch, moving his shoulders. It wasn’t too subtle - Dean was starting to think the whole subtlety thing in general wasn’t his game – but he ignored Castiel’s sarcasm in favour of blowing straight past it, and shifting closer. “You were right about – everything. Saving people. Other stuff.” His voice dwindled to almost nothing. “How are _you?”_

The angel tilted his head at Dean, and even in this close proximity, the gesture was familiar, almost a comfort. He let a breath escape him, a half-sigh, and shifted in his seat. “I’m… fine.” The words, the inflection, were so obviously _learned_ that Dean winced. Sometimes he felt like Castiel had been so fucking unlucky to get saddled with this gig, to get roped in to learn humanity with a guy who was, frankly, pretty horrible at being a human sometimes. He had been trying though, since Purgatory, to be better. A lot of things had changed in their year below.

“Good.” He said, but his disbelief was pretty obvious.

“Your brother will be alright, Dean. You’ve been through worse before.”

Dean swallowed, and looked after where his brother had gone, the familiar sinking feeling he was beginning to associate with Sam returning dutifully to his stomach. “You sure about that?”

He remembers that other, other, fucking _last Christmas_ , one of their many, sitting beside Sam in a motel, with a tree covered in air-fresheners, their ‘gifts’ beside them as the snow fell heavy outside, laughing and then lapsing into silence, talking and then not-talking. The only thing in his mind was _this is your last._ But he’d been happy. 

Now it was the same, but he wasn’t going to hell, and it wasn’t the apocalypse; instead his brother, after ten years, was just. Tired. Of him. Of their life. He was going to leave, and Dean would be alone, and Castiel would go back to heaven, or off on some _quest,_ (or, he thought, with a stab of fear, _worse)_ and he knew that it was his fault, somehow. _His_ fault that Sam didn’t search for him, that Castiel wanted to stay in purgatory. That both of them seemed to be on the brink of something, whilst Dean himself floated in obscurity, missing acutely the simplicity of down below, the weight of a blade between his hands, and simple goals.

Now everything was a mess of wants and wishes, of - he thought with a guilty twinge, glancing at Castiel, where the blue glow of the cheap tv reflected in his eyes – selfish things unvoiced.

The quietness grew between them, and Dean remembered yet another last Christmas, sitting with Castiel on the hood of the burned-out Mustang, the angel’s eyes alight, the multi-coloured lights winking above their heads. Now he feels like things were simple, then, though it never seemed it at the time. When Castiel died – when he walked into that fucking water – Dean had thought, after, of all the moments missed. All the times he could have turned, and said, _Stay._ Just that. A syllable. He curses himself. It would have been enough.

Now, Castiel’s breath warmed him, making his shoulder prickle, a nervousness build in him. He was stuck – had been for a while – between being so fucking relieved that Castiel was back, and fucking terrified that he’d get in too deep (again) and get left alone (again). He turned, though, and sighed.

“Sorry for the shitty Christmas, Cas. ‘Fraid it doesn’t get much better than this.”

Castiel smiled, amused. “I don’t have much basis for comparison.”

Dean snorted. “I bet you were there when friggin’ jesus was born. That _must’ve_ been better than this.”

Castiel shrugged. “They didn’t have cable.” He looked at Dean, pleased with himself, and Dean laughed more from surprise than from the joke, but it was still genuine. He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, Castiel was still looking at him, gaze smooth and even, and his shoulder was still pressed to Dean’s.

“I’m sorry.” He said, again, and Castiel shook his head.

“Don’t. You try, Dean. It’s enough. It’s always been enough.”

Dean almost laughed again, at that, but he let a weary breath escape him, instead. “I’ve missed you, man.” Words were so fucking hard, and Castiel’s expression gave him no respite. The angel said nothing – just looked at him, gaze intense, but that was hardly a change of pace. “I should have told you. I miss you when you’re not here. I missed you when you were down there, I fucking missed you when I was at _Lisa’s_ -“ Castiel raised a hand, and laid it on his forearm.

“I know.” He smiled, affectionate, almost blithe. “I know now. You don’t have to tell me.”

“Yes I do.” He grated out, trying to keep his voice as far from ‘needy’ as possible. Castiel was still smiling, his expression edging into ‘confused’ territory, and Dean realised the words just were never, ever enough. Not for him, anyway. Maybe it drove a wedge between him and Sam, maybe things were lost in the journey from brain to mouth; maybe sometimes there just _weren’t_ words for what he felt, weren’t enough syllables in the word for him to mean what he said. It was his fault, but then it wasn’t, too. They were all stuck, not communicating, not saying what they meant, as far back as Dad, as before even Azazel – but it was a Winchester disease.

 Castiel almost always said what he meant. _You’re different. I’ll go with you. I did it, all of it, for you._ His hand was still on Dean’s arm.

Dean wondered for a moment how it could have taken him a year without Castiel to work out that it went both ways, and then he leaned over and kissed him, because at least _that_ didn’t need words. He felt Castiel stiffen in surprise before he kissed back, murmured something Dean didn’t catch in the brief space between him opening his mouth, pressing closer, his nose against Dean’s cheek, the whole experience strange, and dizzying, and fucking _wonderful._

Castiel tightened his fingers on Dean’s arm, skin unnaturally hot, his Grace obviously still there (not that his little dick-measuring stunt with Crowley hadn’t tipped him off already). Dean swirled his tongue tentatively against the angel’s, feeling him surge in response, drawing breath through his nose, a sharp intake like surprise, like wonder.  Then Castiel pulled his mouth away, and leaned his forehead against Dean’s, and fixed him with that same measured, obstinate stare as always. He’d missed that fucking stare, even, he realised with a jolt, and chastised himself in the same moment for being such a fucking girl.   

“It will get better.” He said, picking up the thread from before, and Dean kissed him again, if only to stave off talking about Sam again for a second.

“I know.” He said, convincing neither of them, and Castiel smiled, corners of his eyes crinkling. “Merry Christmas, Dean.” He paused, and then leaned forward and kissed him again, the barest touch of his mouth on Dean’s. “It’s good to be home.” He said, voice low, and though Sam was still leaving, though Castiel had still said words to him that _burnt_ , though everything was still a fucking _mess_ – there was still something to hope for, some light at the end.

 _It will get better,_ he said, and maybe it would never be perfect, never balance just right, but _better_ was something to hope for. _Better,_ he thought, maybe, they could do. 


End file.
